Security, yes. But also, he quoted Emily Barrett Browning at our first meeting and he made me laugh even when I was angry and evenchildrenlove him and his smile has magic in it and…and it’sAJ. Marriage toanyonewould be a rescue right now, but marrying AJ would prove an Eden-like delight.
He angles a critical gaze at me. Likely he thinks me shallow. Perhaps I am. But can I bring myself to declare my undying love for him? I’ve known the man little more than a fortnight.
Yet I do know this—Ansel James Winthrop brings color and life to all he meets, myself included.I’ve never felt so instantly at ease with anyone before.Is that love?Perhaps a woman in reduced circumstances hasn’t any business expecting love. “Come now, AJ. I’m only hastening along what would have happened anyway.” We’ve exchanged subtle flirtations for weeks now, and what is the point of all that if not an eventualdeclaration? Surely he sees the sense in this. Love doesn’t always require time—only sincerity, and a good dose of delight.
Instead of answering, he flops back on the grass, hands behind his head, eyes closed against the bright sunlight.
The cad.
I open my mouth to take it back, to beg that he, instead of wedding me, take on a seven-year-old, orphaned boy with an extra-sensitive nature. But then AJ says, “Very well,” with a jovial tone that might have ended with,Why not?“I accept your terms.”
I exhale, sagging against the tree. “Well, that’s grand.” I’m overcome with such lovely calm, the like of which I’ve not felt since Lady St. Laurent’s funeral. Nay, since that terrible middle-of-the-night hour I spent at the dear woman’s deathbed, clutching her hand as her vibrant life slipped away. Those days were dreadful.
But now, life is clarifying into one clear path, and all I have to do is walk it. With AJ. I slip my hand into his and cling to this man who has agreed to tie himself to me. Which is quite brave of him, all things considered.
He cracks one eye open to look at me, smiles, then closes it again, squeezing my hand. Another long, low exhale of contentment, which somehow calms my nerves. He’s happy.This isn’t theworstidea. Just a hasty one. “We’ll have a quiet ceremony at the chapel, as soon as possible.”
“But Lady St. Laurent wished you to have a fine wedding at St. Peter’s, and you should honor her wishes. She’d be most pleased.”
I sigh. “Very well, I suppose you’re right.”
Only afterward does the obvious strike me—not with alarm, but with a faint, hollow click of recognition. I hadn’t ever mentioned to him the contents of my late employer’s will—not any of it. Not the wedding provision or the more generous portions.
I let him lead me out of the park, still dazed by how neatly everything has fallen into place. All my careful scheming suddenly felt less like planning and more like stepping onto a path already laid out for me to follow.
Chapter 2
William, 1947
Thecallisamistake—he grasps that right away—but he makes it anyway. William Thatcher clings to the telephone in the narrow booth, starving for the sound of Helen’s voice on the other end as soon as the operator puts him through. Any moment now.
Ring.
He’s lasted only a fortnight this time.
Ring—
“Hello,” she says, bright and full of warm sunshine, then a pause. “Hello?”
He claps a hand over his mouth, barely daring to breathe as he drinks in the familiar notes of Helen’s voice. Instantly he’s home. He presses the earpiece close, hunched against the wall of the booth.Say more. More words. More of you.
“Hello, is someone there?”
He drinks it up. The familiar lilt. The cadence of bright red poppies.Tell me how you’re doing. Just a glimpse.
“Hello?Operator, are you there?”
“On the line,” chirps a female voice.
“And the call is connected?”
“Yes, ma’am. Would you like to disconnect?”
No. No, don’t disconnect. Please stay.The earpiece begins to slip through his clammy fingers.Just keep talking.He never used to perspire this much. Not even when they had courted.
“Who placed the call, please?” Helen’s voice is bright, because that’s who she is. It takes work to annoy her. She’s a diamond among women, really. The sort that could only be discovered rather than manufactured.
“Can’t say, ma’am. Unregistered number.”
